


Number of Days

by TashanaAmbrosia



Series: With Two Hands [6]
Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, Kastle hints, how many days, prose fic, time and it's progression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-27
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2019-02-07 09:57:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12838764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TashanaAmbrosia/pseuds/TashanaAmbrosia
Summary: This rattling around in my head. Hope you guys like it.Wrote this after Daredevil Season 2 - I know timeline-wise it doesn't work, but I love how it turned out. The formatting is my favorite part.





	Number of Days

 

**Number of Days**

It wasn’t like he was a stranger in her space. He was there often enough that there was a coffee cup that was his. He was there often enough that there was a bar of Ivory soap next to her coconut body wash. He was there often enough that her first aid kit was now the size of a small toolbox, instead of the little white box you picked up at the grocery store. He was there often enough that there a few men’s shirts and sweats folded at the bottom of her towel closet, just in case. He was there often enough that her sewing kit had merged with that small toolbox-sized first aid kit. He was there often enough that he had a side of the couch and it smelled faintly of him.

He tapped on the window enough for it to be routine until it stopped…

At day 10, she hadn’t even batted an eyelash when he was still gone, in fact, it wasn’t uncommon for him to stay away for weeks at a time.

At day 55, she batted an eyelash when she realized how long it had been since he’d been in her space. She argued with herself about the why’s and what’s that would have kept him away.

About 90 days after she’d seen him last, she started working on a dangerous story, the kind of story that should have thrown her dead into his path, but he never showed up. And on day 95 when one of the thugs got too close to her, Matt saved her and although she thanked him, the red of his costume made her ache for the color black.

After 120 days, she started making half pots of coffee again, but couldn’t drink from his cup. She put the Ivory soap into a Ziploc bag, but couldn’t bring herself to throw it away. She put the small toolbox-sized first aid kit into the back of her closet with the men’s clothes folded on top of it, but she hadn’t wanted to.

After 180 days she called Matt and asked if he’d heard anything about Frank, but Devil of Hell’s Kitchen simply warned her, “Wherever the Punisher is, he doesn’t want to be found. You should stay away from him.” She refused to believe that he was just gone. He couldn’t just vanish the same way he appeared. She switched her coffee brand back to the familiar red bag, that she’d always bought before she accidentally received that fateful email that led her down the path of ‘she who knows vigilantes.’ She threw the Ivory soap away, but she left the small toolbox-sized first aid kit and clothes in the back of her closet.

After 252 days, she reached out to a private investigator in Hell’s Kitchen, and the small brunette with a permanent scowl, told Karen she’d look, but not too expect anything. “Look that guy was as loud as f'ing bomb and it’s been quiet for a while. You know this is a really ugly couch. Why is this side indented; it smells like gun oil.“ Karen couldn’t bring herself to answer.

After 300 days Karen called Jessica and told her to stop looking, either he didn’t want to be or couldn’t be found. Karen couldn’t decide which was worse. She bought a new couch, not bothering to ask if it was stain resistant. Foggy came over that night and complimented the black sectional, but asked, “Are you okay? I’m worried about you, you don’t seem like yourself.” Karen couldn’t bring herself to answer, but she hugged her friend and thanked him for always caring.

After 330 days, Karen Page did something she swore she’d already done; she considered him dead. She pulled out one of the men’s shirts from the back of her closet and put it on. She printed the picture of him sleeping on her couch, from her phone, the one of him resting, an unconscious smile on his face. She sipped her take-home coffee from the corner dinner and lit a candle in front of his picture. The clock struck midnight and after 331 days, she allowed herself to cry, mourning his apparent death, whether actual or just from her. She cried until she fell asleep; kneeling at the make-shift memorial to a man that the world feared, then forgot. The altar on her coffee table: a bag of his coffee brand, a new bar of Ivory soap, and the small toolbox-sized first aid kit with sewing kit inside it. Karen was hallowed in the light of the candle, sleeping in a man’s shirt, her head resting on a pillow from her old couch.

Tap. Tap. Tap on the window.


End file.
